


The Hanged Man

by shadowrogue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, City Elf (Dragon Age) Origin, Depression, F/M, Headcanon, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rogue Warden (Dragon Age), Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27885523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowrogue/pseuds/shadowrogue
Summary: Some scars, it seemed, ran deeper than flesh.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	The Hanged Man

**Author's Note:**

> DAO Epilogue: "Zevran lingered in Denerim for a time, mourning the loss of his love and working for the Fereldan throne as a distraction. Eventually the Crows came after him once again and he elected to take the fight to their doorstep. After four master assassins disappeared, the Crows readmitted Zevran as their leader. He maintained a distance from his former comrades even then, and despite frequent offers of new bedmates...never loved again."
> 
> -Set one week before the events of the DA2 side quest: A Murder of Crows.  
> -HC: Zevran went through a couple of rough years before he found his spark again at the Battle of Kirkwall and decided to return to Antiva.  
> -HC: Tabris was given her mother's wedding ring by her father the morning of her ceremony and wears it along with Nelaros' on a necklace under her armor.

Taverns were loud, sticky places. Had they always been this disgusting, or was Zevran simply growing more and more bitter with each passing year? His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the bustling establishment, a force of habit. There were cobwebs strung up in every corner of the torch-lit hovel, and the floorboards themselves creaked under his boots as if they'd been haphazardly repaired, scorch marks still staining the wood.

There had been a time in his life when he hadn't noticed such things. He'd never been still or silent long enough to take in the little flaws of the world. Drink and company after a long day of traveling had been a pleasure, an indulgence. Now it simply felt like an escape. Bars merely a new place to brood.

He ordered his usual vice and reached for the glass, staring down at the simple iron ring on his smallest finger. The cheap, dented trinket had once belonged to the Warden's mother...and had also been her very last gift to him. A parting favor, so to speak. A token of her affections. How fitting, he supposed, that she'd died wearing his earring and today he lived on, carting around what would have been her wedding band.

If she'd survived the Blight he would have married her down the line, eventually placing the same ring back upon her finger. Looking back he should've, while they'd still had the chance. It was a weighted regret he carried around; the knowledge that he'd never given her the ceremony of her dreams - the proper kind, with a heavily embroidered gown and a crown woven of the palest poppy flowers.

One without barbaric rapists and bloodshed.

Yet he'd never even told her he _loved_ her, not out loud, and never in those exact words. At first because he hadn't wanted to rush into something so new and fragile, then simply because he'd foolishly assumed they'd always have more time. That somehow, _together_ , they were invincible. Two rogues against all odds.

Ah, yes. Now that he was older he was sure of it; Tabris had been it for him, the mythical true and only. The kind of woman that people wrote terrible, nauseating poetry about. Losing her had nearly killed him, and the weight of her absence, even now, lay heavy in the air wherever he went.

The day Alistair had sealed her tomb something inside of him had shattered, leaving behind nothing but the sharpest of pieces, fragments of dreams he never should have dared to reach for in the first place. As those heavy stones had locked into placed, the realization that he would never again gaze upon her sweet face or kiss her pouting lips had finally set in, leaving him to stand there in that open field as if petrified, uncertain of what came next or how to go on. One by one, all who'd gathered to pay their respects had slowly dwindled away. Yet he'd remained, stoic before her grave as the clouds drew ever nearer and the rain began to fall; a gentle reminder that the world had already moved on without her, even though he himself never would.

Nowadays there were silent shadows that flickered where she would've stood, white noise in the places where her laughter should be heard. It seemed every memory that didn't comfort him simply...haunted him.

How cruel his beloved had been, to make him fall hopelessly in love with her, only to venture into the Black City without him.

He tipped back the remainder of his drink with a grimace, feeling the back of his skull buzz with a much too familiar numbness.

A slender man with an easy smile eventually sat down beside him, ordering a dark colored drink that smelled of pure, spiced debauchery. Zevran caught him staring between sips, amber eyes lingering. Perhaps there was a pleasant distraction to be found there, at least for the evening. He tried his best to plaster on a bit of faux enthusiasm, attempting to muster up some clever opening line. Hadn't he once been good at that?

But before he could get a single word in, a nearby bard jumped up from his stool, gathering the attention of all around with a rusty fork banged against the side of his mug. He was a stocky thing, even for a dwarf, with hair like brushed wheat and a booming voice. He was also blatantly deep in his cups.

"Gather 'round good folk, and listen here as I spin you a tale not often told! We all know of the Hero of Ferelden, yes?"

A cheer erupted from the intoxicated crowd. Cups clicked together. Somebody near the fireplace whistled. Zevran was accustomed to this sort of clamor. Stories of Anja were widespread all the way from here to Tevinter. He used to sit and listen to them, utterly pathetic, for a time. Sometimes even offering anecdotes. But then it simply became too painful. Even now, hearing them praise her, he suddenly felt hollow inside. Disoriented. As if she should be here beside him, one hand dangerously high on his thigh as she rolled her eyes at their antics. He stood with a dusky sigh, making his way towards the exit.

"Of course you do! She slew a _bloody fucking dragon_ , she did! But who was she before she took up her infamous, enchanted swords - where did the legend begin? Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to take you back to the start of it all. A tragic tale, a modern tragedy! One which humbly begins with the Bride of Denerim..."

Zevran already had one hand pushing open the door, yet felt himself stall, an unpleasant shiver creeping up his spine. Suddenly he felt himself as if outside his body, there again, up in the mountains as the snow fell.

Oh, how he'd always hated the cold.

_Outside their thin canvas tent, the quiet pop-popping of embers could be heard from the dying fire that Wynne was supposed to be tending to. Zevran lay awake, one arm propped behind his head, peaceful in a way he'd never known as he watched Anja sleeping soundly in the crook of his shoulder. His free hand idly explored her body, tracing invisible patterns up and down the divot of her naked hip, playing with the harsh, blunt ends of her ruffled hair. He ceased his musings though as his fingers brushed along her outer thigh, discovering a raised, jagged scar. He massaged that spot with the pads of his fingertips, a furrow forming between his brows._

_She had many scars - they all did - but most were slight and flat, healed by magic or potion. Whereas this one was ugly and rough, as if she'd had to pass a needle through her own skin in order to close the wound. Most of hers were like that, a consequence of having grown up in an alienage; from gangs she had begrudgingly joined and narrowly escaped from; muggers she'd had to fend off using nothing but a dull knife; messy escapes from homes she'd robbed. Each marred piece of flesh had its own story, its own brutal bestowment. Sometimes she wove their origin tales for him in the dark of the night, her smirk proud as she bragged of her skill and finesse. Other times though her expression would fall, clouded as if she weren't telling the whole of the story, editing out the parts that made her choke up and roll over, feigning tiredness._

_They were kindred spirits in that damaged fashion. Both broken, angry products of a world that had dealt them a hand at birth with no winning cards. He had once considered himself thriving as a Crow, had been high on the spoilers of his murderous rewards; no guilt, no righteous code of morals to weigh him down. Then his cold heart had thawed ever so slightly, finding an unwelcome but pleasant sense of companionship amongst his former duo of assassins. They'd been together for years; friends, in an odd sense; lovers, in the dark. But losing Rinna had made him realize that in the end there was simply no point. No purpose to what they did. Simply violence and pain, with nothing to show for it at the end of the day other then dull material prizes._

_So why_ not _go out in a blaze of glory? Why not be slain by a legendary Grey Warden, a true and exciting challenge that would also finally grant him sweet release from his inner torment? He had been more than eager to die, yet had also planned to first go out with everything he had, to be slain only after carving wickedly deep scars into his opponent, ones they would always remember_ him _having left there._

_Those ones were flat upon her skin...the ones he had caused with his own blades after ambushing her from above. He had matching ones from her, on his left arm and chest; a pinpoint red dot on his throat where she'd pressed the point of her dagger threateningly into his skin as he'd slowly and hazily regained his senses. She kissed that spot often, tenderly, as if to ask forgiveness for hurting him, and he did the same, only ever touching the places he'd tainted with a reserved softness that both intrigued and alarmed him._

_Tranquility though, he discovered, only came in short, bliss-filled bursts. Then it was interrupted, without fail, every time. That night all had been well, until it simply hadn't. One moment Anja was curled up beside him, small and dreaming, then the next thing he knew she was suddenly thrashing, caught in the clawing thralls of a nightmare. Subconscious disturbance was a part of being a protector of the realm. She would often stir and whimper, yet was usually lulled back to sleep with ease as the archdemon drifted further and further away from her mind. But tonight was different, and Alistair, from the sound of things, still slept soundly nearby._

_He tried his best to calm her, held her tighter - as if he could absorb the very essence of her fears - his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. But she twisted violently in response, his fingers snagging her hair. Her eyes shot open then, two metallic colored orbs in the darkness, wide as the moon outside, unfocused and staring straight past him as her ankles hooked around his waist. She flipped him as if he weighed nothing, the strength of diluted demon blood raging inside of her as she struck him, crying out vengeance in a strained, cracked voice for someone named Shianni._

_He tasted blood as he fought her off, all the while trying not to harm her. As he wretched her shoulder back she finally came to, staring down at him in sheer horror over what she had done. She burst into tears as she slid away in humiliation, dragging a blanket up to cover her chest._

_"Maker, no. No, no, no. Zev, you have to believe me, I-I didn't mean to. I would_ never. _I don't know what come over me-"_

_He simply shrugged, out of breath as he wiped his bleeding lip with the back of his arm. "I still have all my teeth, yes? And I'm still pretty? Ha. Then see, no harm done. Besides, I probably deserved that one. You know, for trying to kill you."_

_She didn't find his nonchalance amusing in the slightest. Instead her expression was haunted as she stared off into a fixed point in the corner, trapped in some deeply troubled memory, trembling like a child. Her eyes were akin to glass, ice frosting over a lake._

_"Do you...wish to talk about it?" he asked quietly, toeing a line he hadn't dared to cross. She wore two rings on a chain around her neck, even now, bare of all else. Yet he'd always simply chosen not to bring them up._

_She scoffed, cheeks bright red from the chill in the air. "You and I don't do that."_

_No, they didn't. They fought together, always side-by-side, teased and flirted with one another as they traveled, fucked like animals, and now even slept in an embrace; but they didn't talk, not like that. Never more or any deeper than a pair of friends would._

_"We could," he offered, feeling something inside of him crumble at the sight of such genuine anguish._

_Some scars, it seemed, ran deeper than flesh..._

_...and it was that long winter's night, just outside Haven, that they both chose to bare them. That their shared farce of indifference ended and something new began._

He swore he could still feel the ghost of her hand hesitantly reaching for his, searching for solidarity, yearning for connection as she spoke of her wedding day and the horrors that had unfolded at the alter. She'd been bathed in blood and branded a murderer, forced to choose between swinging from the gallows or being put through the Joining. His fingers twitched.

Why the _fuck_ had he ever let go of her hand...? 

Before he'd even registered what he was doing Zevran had spun on his heels, a dagger zipping through the air from his outstretched fingertips. The bard cried out as it pierced his shoulder, pinning him to the wooden paneling of the wall. Blood ran down his open tunic and bare chest, his eyes wide as the former Crow lazily strolled across the room. The patrons parted for him, seemingly out of fear of the foreign, cloaked elf with his hood drawn low. Wisely so.

He bent at the waist, eye level with the dwarf, a man possessed as he gripped the hilt of a knife.

"That-" He twisted the blade, listening to the man hiss a curse through his teeth, "-is _not_ your story to tell. Understood?"

The bard nodded, pupils blown, grunting as Zevran yanked the dagger free, once more heading towards the door as he wiped it clean against the leather of his arm gaurd. He flicked a stolen sovereign over his shoulder, listening to the sound it made as it bounced off the shitty, mismatched floors of The Hanged Man.

"Find yourself a healer before you bleed out. I hear there's one in Darktown."

There was a grim sort of satisfaction in the knowledge that even with the touch of a mage his mark would still scar the man.

Zevran disappeared into the night after that, walking towards the supposed Dalish settlement until his drunken feet would no longer carry him, eventually collapsing to his knees upon the cold forest floor.

He felt tears bristling in his eyes as he gazed up into the night sky, the silver color of the stars mocking him. He clenched his fists as hard as he could, feeling lost. Purposeless. A hunted man, one who couldn't even attempt to return home and start anew without essentially declaring war on an entire guild. His knuckles turned white, the bite of iron pinching at his skin.

He stared down at Anja's ring; in longing, in reverence, in agony.

"They would have called you the Bride of Antiva," he whispered, "Ours should have been a happy ending."

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments appreciated!


End file.
